Recalled To Life
by Arwen Jade Kenobi
Summary: It has been two years since the death of Sherlock Holmes and one year since a bookshop appeared on the corner of Church Street; a stone’s throw away from the practice of Doctor John Watson.
1. Wednesday, 26 April, 1893

Chapter One

_Wednesday, 26 April 1893_

The book shop had appeared overnight, or so it appeared to Watson. His maid, Eliza Martingrove, assured him that it was a lovely little shop and it had been there since shortly after Mary Watson had passed away. The man who owned it was quite gruff and eccentric according to her ("the way he just fawns over those books. Sometimes he speaks to them like they're his _children_, sir!") but it was quite the little shop. The next best thing to a public library on the corner she said. ("If you'll pardon me for saying so sir, I can't believe you haven't been in there. It's been there over a year.")

Watson didn't find it so hard to believe. He hadn't seen much of anything since his wife had died. Losing Holmes and Mary so close together had turned out to be too much for him. He'd been bedridden and ill for a week after the fact.

It had been raining the day of Mary's funeral. He'd stayed out by her gravestone far too long and when he felt the need to move he'd only moved to another, isolated, corner of the cemetery to stand over the stone he and Mycroft had placed there for Sherlock Holmes. Watson was fairly sure he was the only visitor. He hadn't managed to admit to the public that Holmes was dead yet and he did enjoy having a private spot for him to go to and think of his friend without interruption. The exposure to the elements combined with his weakened state had him afflicted with a pleasant case of pneumonia, which he was partially surprised that he had survived. There was no one left here but him and it would have been very easy and quite desirable to allow himself to be swept away. He was a solider though, a solider through and through, and he was going to stick this out until the bitter end. It would indeed be a bitter one; he knew that through and through. Besides, he knew that the reactions of both Mary and Holmes if he appeared at their sides prematurely would be less than favourable ones. He could almost hear Mary's sobs of 'why, John, why' accompanied by a tirade against shameless romanticism given by his dear friend. The prospect of being able to hear them again almost made those pains worth it.

The bookstore must have appeared during his illness, he decided. The new line of thought distracted him from the darker one.

After his illness, when he was back to something resembling himself, he had followed the example of another Holmes: he had set up his lines and ran on them. He woke up, he ate breakfast, he saw patients, he had lunch, he saw patients, he had dinner, he went for a walk, he wrote, he retired. The only time there were ever any interruptions were when Lestrade called him out for help at the Yard. His practice was quite meagre and he did greatly miss the adventures and the mysteries. He did what he could for Lestrade, be it autopsies or amateur deductions, because it was a taste of a life he'd once had and could never have again. He'd take what he could get of it.

Those were his lines and those lines were his life. It may be a paradise to a man like Mycroft Holmes but it was a purgatory boarding on a hell for John Watson. It was an annoying period of waiting. Waiting for things to get better, which they never really would, and waiting for it all to end, which would happen in the quite distant future. It was existence and nothing more.

He found himself looking up at the bookstore. He must have walked by this place dozens of times before on his walks but he had never really studied the place before now. It was closed now; he could see the old man limping about getting his till in order. When he hobbled over to the door to pull down the blinds he stared at Watson for a moment, as though surprised to see him, and then gave him a quick nod of greeting. Watson barely had time to return the gesture before the blind was pulled down.

_I shall stop in tomorrow,_ he decided as he passed the bookshop and continued up the street to his practice. It would certainly be a break from the routine and his library could do with some additions.

He soon found himself on the steps to his empty practice. He was still, even so long after moving out of Baker Street, hard pressed to refer to Kensington as home. Before it was "I'm going back to Mary" and now it was "I'm going back to my practice." Home had never really factored into it at all. He let himself in and settled in the sitting room, which doubled as his waiting room during consulting hours. He helped himself to a few fingers of brandy and took a seat at his desk. He had to get the story of the Musgrave Ritual finished tonight to be ready for the publisher's on Friday.

It was very likely unhealthy for him to be so enveloped in the life of a dead man but, like so many other things, Watson found he just didn't care anymore.


	2. Thursday, 27 April, 1893

Chapter Two

_Thursday, 27 April 1893_

His practice had been unnaturally busy this morning. A steady stream of asthmatics, cold and allergy sufferers had kept him quite busy until well past midday. His maid, Eliza, had been an angel this whole time. Dealing with the more temperamental patients was above and beyond the call of duty for her; he made a mental note to give her a bonus. In many ways, he had to admit, Eliza reminded him of Mrs. Hudson. He hadn't visited Mrs. Hudson since before he'd gotten ill. She wired him now and again to see how he was and was constantly inviting him over for tea. He couldn't do it and she never complained about it. Watson believed that if he crossed the threshold of 221B he might fall to pieces. There were too many memories; far too many memories for him to bear.

It was well past midday, and he was halfway through his lunch, when he remembered the bookstore on the corner. Typically, he had another three consulting hours, but he wanted to investigate the bookstore in a state of relative tranquillity instead of one of complete and utter weariness.

"Eliza," he announced when the stalwart young woman arrived to take away the dishes. "I am going to close my practice early today. Kindly refer anyone who comes by to Doctor Grant."

Eliza nodded eagerly. "Very good, sir." She picked up the tray and smiled slightly at him, "Are you going to look at the book shop, sir?"

Watson nodded. "Indeed I am, but how did you know that?"

Eliza smiled again, this time a touch sheepishly. "I don't rightly know, sir. Just guessed, I reckoned. Either that or I've read too much of the Strand!" With a light little laugh she was off.

Watson had no idea why he expected her to say she had deduced his intentions by the frequency of his glances to the bookcase in his consulting room. Or the small note he'd left himself on his ledger with regards to the trip. Or even his eyebrows somehow managing to give himself away.

It was silly, to think that Miss Eliza Martingrove would have the deductive powers of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, but he found that the idea that his gifts were lost forever a concept that grew too painful to bear as time went on rather than less so.

- - -

The old man who owned the bookstore was watching him, had been watching him ever since he'd entered in fact. He was not the only one in the shop, and he certainly was not the most entertaining one, there was a woman in a ridiculous outfit browsing that more than certainly took that title, but he could feel the man's eyes boring into his back.

The man was an interesting, eccentric, old fellow. He was a grizzled character, his hair so low into his eyes that he couldn't see their colour, and had quite a pale and thin face underneath layers of wrinkles. He had a crooked back and an obvious, almost exaggerated, limp bur he was shelving books with the vigour of a much younger man, humming to himself and talking to the books as if they could hear him. It appeared that Eliza's description was quite accurate.

"May I help you, Doctor?"

Watson started in shock as the old man appeared at his elbow. "Oh I'm sorry," the old man said tenderly. "I did not mean to startle you. Is there anything specific you are looking for?"

His default response of "no thank you" was poised on his lips but he, for the life of him, could not remember the name of Rudyard Kipling's most recent book of poetry. He already had a Robert Louis Stevenson novel and a story by a young American woman about some coloured wallpaper he was curious to read but he found that he wanted something a little more realistic alongside his flights of fancy. When he asked the question he got a chuckle from his companion.

"You must mean _Barrack-Room Ballads_ then," he answered, pronouncing the alliterative title with an amused chuckle. It was an odd chuckle, some part of Watson noted; almost a familiar one, not only in sound but also the sound of someone who knew him well laughing at a favourite peculiarity.

"That's it!" he confirmed with a surprising amount of enthusiasm. "It came out earlier this year."

"Last year, actually," the old man corrected as he hobbled off to the other side of the shelf that Watson had been browsing. His attention was drawn to the limp. It was an extremely familiar one…

"Here you are, sir." Watson felt the volume slipped under his arm with the other books. "Will that be all for today? Yes? Right this way then."

The books were parcelled up and paid for and he found himself bidding the bookseller good afternoon and heading back to his practice without even fully realising it. When he arrived at the house, Eliza having left for the day, he found himself too distracted by the limp of the bookseller to concentrate on any of his purchases.

He had seen that limp before. That was sure but he knew no one who limped except himself. He didn't even limp like that normally; that limp was reserved for appearances on stormy mornings or long treks out with Holmes.

He shook his head, perhaps that man was a old campaigner as well? Doubtful, his reason countered. He's too old for that.

Perhaps he was born lame? Possible. Quite probable actually, but that didn't explain how he found the gait familiar. He had never seen this man before now and thus had never seen that limp before. That should be enough for him.

Not quite. Holmes sometimes exhibited a limp when he was in disguise. After a period of time it had mirrored Watson's exactly. It had served him very well, Holmes had always told him, to have an actual limp to study and emulate.

Well, Watson thought to himself, the old man is not me and it certainly is not Holmes. Must be a coincidence.

Or was it? Some tiny part of him nagged at him, telling him to look closer at that point. What if that bookseller was Holmes? Watson had never been able to recognize him while he'd been in disguise. The bookseller had seemed very preoccupied with him; even his manner had seemed familiar. He'd moved to help no one else in the store, just him.

This was absurd. Sherlock Holmes was dead. Dead at the bottom of a waterfall in Switzerland. A dead man in Switzerland cannot be alive and in disguise in England.

That statement did not settle the matter as surely as he'd hoped. The idea remained in his head, simmering quietly throughout the rest of his evening routine, and followed him into bed.

Sherlock Holmes was dead. To believe otherwise would do him no good. If he was right, after all, that meant his best friend had lied to him for nearly two years. It was a cruel act that he refused to believe the man capable of.

His last thought before succumbing to sleep was the Culverton Smith case. If he had been cruel enough to make Watson believe he had been dying, that dark voice in the back of his mind said, then allowing him to believe he was dead was the next logical step.


	3. Monday, 1 May, 1893

He always knew that it was press day for _The Strand _when he saw an increase of new patients come by his practice. Quite often these people had nothing whatsoever ailing them but Watson usually diagnosed them with something trifling in order to not make them feel foolish for seeking him out. "The Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual" appeared to be well received, if his current quota of opinions held true to a larger sample. Nothing new there; the public absolutely adored reading about the adventures and exploits of Sherlock Holmes. That adoration was one reason why he wrote as though the detective was still alive: he did not want to break so many hearts in one fell swoop. He also didn't want to have a stream of people start offering him condolences in the street; he didn't think he had the stomach to handle that.

So it was with an unusual amount of joy bordering on elation that he closed up his practice for the day at five o'clock. He hoped that no one had the audacity to bring up his most recent publication at the play tonight. A patient, a legitimate and regular one, had given him a ticket to "Lady Windermere's Fan" as a thank you and Watson found himself actually anticipating it. He hadn't gone to the theatre since Mary had died. There was a second ticket given to him as well but he quite honestly could not think of anyone to ask. Asking Eliza would be inappropriate and Lestrade hated the theatre.

There were a few people he knew from the club that he could ask, but decided that he'd much prefer to enjoy this alone. He smiled sadly to himself as he caught his reflection in the mirror. Not so long ago he'd have Mary in the background, fussing over which dress to wear and where her earrings had gotten to.

He stopped that thought. Shut it down in his mind before he could allow her ghost to appear in the mirror beside him. Replacing it almost immediately was an irritated, dramatic shout of "Come along, Watson!" that was so present that Watson could almost hear its owner thundering along the corridor.

It if wasn't one it was the other. There was no escape from it. He grabbed his cane and all but fled the house. He almost knocked down the old bookseller on his way and did not notice the concerned shout of "Dr. Watson!" as leapt into the first cab he saw.

- - -

Watson regretted going to the play alone shortly after the play had started. He had noticed Colonel Sebastian Moran settle into the seat next to him as soon as the house lights dimmed and he wished that he could sit somewhere else. He supposed he could have moved one seat over but that was too obvious. The colonel had become an oddly prominent figure in his life, something that he was not happy with at all.

Moran had ended up as one of his first patients after his illness. He couldn't remember precisely what had ailed the colonel but he had been quite certain that it had been fabricated. He continued to drop in on him, usually soon after press day for i_The Strand/i_, periodically sometimes legitimately and sometimes not. Every visit though always brought an inquisitive patient. Talks about their service for the Empire soon devolved into questions about his exploits with Sherlock Holmes. He never let on that he was dead but often Moran seemed to know the answers before Watson divulged them.

He'd filled Lestrade in on things, and he'd asked to be kept informed. Watson had done so and so far there was nothing to suggest anything more sinister than a particularly devoted fan. Moran was a gentleman and a well respected one at that, Lestrade did not expect anything drastic.

Watson respected Lestrade and counted him as a friend, more so after Holmes had died, but all of the inspector's assurances did not make him feel at ease around Moran. There was something underneath than smile and the kind eyes, some diabolical shadow in them. He had no proof, just a feeling; a feeling that could mean absolutely nothing but the manifestation of his own annoyances. He didn't like it when people dug too deep into this area of his life. It was something he should have thought about before he started writing but he still deeply resented it when people asked too many questions of him. The stories were all he was willing to divulge and he wished people would respect that.

Moran was simply the most inquisitive of a group he found incredibly irritating. Nothing more sinister than that.

He nodded as politely as he could in greeting, Moran nodded back and then thankfully returned to his female companion. Watson remained in his seat. As long as the man did not speak to him all would be well.

All was well until the intermission. His female companion excused herself and Moran asked him how he was finding the production. The fifteen minutes of intermission was spent mostly in polite conversation, which was just fine by Watson. The final question posed to him though was strange.

"You've read of Sigerson haven't you, doctor?"

Watson nodded. "Yes I have. I was grieved to read he had been lost."

"I'm sure you were." There was that shadow behind the smile again. Everything seemed polite and proper but Watson couldn't excuse the chill that came over him. Moran leaned closer to him, conspiratorially, and it was all Watson could manage to not back away. "Is Holmes Sigerson?"

Watson let out a snort of laughter. "I beg your pardon?"

Moran chuckled as well. "Ridiculous notion I know," he chortled. "But it does have some indications of him does it not?"

"How to you deduce that?" Watson inquired somewhat heatedly. "Sigerson's appearance is not described."

Moran nodded. "Besides, if your accounts are to be believed, he is a master of disguise." His gaze bore into him, as though searching for an answer that Watson did not know he had. "There's been no whisper of Holmes, or any potential cases in the news, therefore I deduce he is abroad. You also have been quite firmly fixed here."

"My assistance is not always required on his cases. He also does not always keep me informed on his doings. I am not his keeper." This conversation was insane and it needed to end quickly.

"Which makes it completely plausible that he be Sigerson."

"No," Watson informed him. "It does not."

"Why? Have you heard from him?"

"Yes." He was spared from needing to lie by the play beginning its second act. He eventually ended up leaving just before the finale in order to avoid being questioned by Moran again. It was a stupid conversation and he hoped that Moran would back out of it and not bring it up again. Hopefully their next meeting would not be for some time.

It was something that he could easily see Holmes doing, though. Adopting another life for months for the purposes of serving whatever mission he was on and them promptly abandoning it without a trace once that mission was done. He'd done it more than enough times before.

Besides, Sigerson had vanished during his illness. He remembered reading the exploits while on bed rest. It made no sense whatsoever, why would Moran think such a ridiculous thing? It was old news. There was no whisper of Holmes in London because there very rarely was whisper of Holmes in London. He seldom took credit in his cases after all.

Watson decided to walk back to his practice and when he passed the bookstore again made a note to see if there was a written copy of "Lady Windermere's Fan" out yet. He had enjoyed it in production but he liked the prospect of enjoying it alone in his sitting room even more.


	4. Tuesday, 2 May, 1893

Eliza Martingrove reminded Watson of Mrs. Hudson in many ways. One such way was her intuitive insight. She had just come in with his breakfast and knew right away to whom he had spoken at the play the night before.

"You get a particular look in your eyes when you speak to That Man." Whenever Eliza said the words _that man _in that particular tone Watson always knew she meant Moran and he always imagined it capitalized. "I do wish you'd send him away if he bothers you so."

Watson sighed. It had always been an option, and there were times that he suspected that Moran was waiting for him to do just that. Part of him, a part of him that sounded achingly familiar, urged him to do it. It just wasn't in his nature though, or at least not a part of the nature he saw fit to present to the world. In all his years as a doctor he had never turned a patient away from his door and he was not about to start now.

Colonel Moran was not quite worthy of that distinction…

_"Doctor, would you PLEASE get your blasted potions AWAY from me!"_

"_You asked for my attentions! Now I appreciate that, and also the fact that this is an event worthy of its own holiday, but why did you ask if you did not want my help in the first place?"_

"_Help is indeed what I requested, Watson, but this is not help. This is an attempt at poisoning."_

"_It is only cough suppressant, Holmes –"_

"_Must it be so vile though? I refuse to believe something beneficial has such an awful odor."_

"_Drink or I shall be forced to _make_ you drink it."_

"_You wouldn't dar-Watson get away or I-mmmmph!!!" _

"Doctor Watson?"

He started and barely managed to save his cup of tea from being knocked off his desk. Somehow his voice remained even when he answered Eliza and asked what the matter was.

"You were laughing to yourself, sir," Eliza informed him carefully, like she was breaking some sort of terrible news. "Are you quite alright?"

"Fine, Eliza, just fine," he assured her. "Just a memory, that is all."

_Just a memory, that's all he is now. Merely a thought._

"Good or bad?" Watson knew he had about ten seconds to answer the question before Eliza deduced that she'd stepped too far and disappeared from the room in a flurry of apologies. Eliza didn't know Holmes was dead; she was in the dark as much as the rest of his public was about that fact. How he had managed to keep her that way for so long he had no idea but he was thankful for it. Whenever Eliza went away he always said he'd spent the time on a case and she believed him. Lying to Eliza was like lying to a child about the existence of Father Christmas: it was an encouraged idea because it was more alluring than the alternative. The child would divine the truth on their own one day and the longer Eliza believed Holmes was alive the better for Watson's sanity.

He needed to talk, however, and it might as well be to Eliza.

"Both," he finally answered. "It was an amusing incident between Mr. Holmes and myself and I am…saddened that he has been gone so long."

Eliza's concerned features quickly changed into one so soft that Watson almost could mistake it for a feather pillow. "He hasn't written you?"

"The case forbids it." The lie came easily and Watson could almost create a case and a dialogue to corroborate his fantasy. It is so simple to do, he mused. It is so much more preferable to mistake the illusion for reality.

But it was not real. It never would be real. Watson was a man more appreciative of fantasy than Holmes but Watson demanded nothing but reality from the real world. Fantasy was fine for a work of fiction but it was not healthy to be present in the mortal world.

"He'll be home soon," Eliza was saying as she straightened up some papers on his desk. She smiled to herself and looked at him meaningfully "In the meantime though I'm sure he misses you as much as you miss him." With that well meaning thought she collected his dishes and left the room whistling.

Watson found that statement questionable. Wherever Holmes was, assuming the Holmes he had known still existed, Watson was not sure he missed him. He might, he admitted that chance, but it seemed that Holmes would be far more concerned with discovering the answers to all of this life's mysteries to bother for the friend he'd left behind.

" 'Myfriend is dead,' " Watson found himself reciting. " 'my neighbour is dead, my love, the darling of my soul, is dead.' " The quotation echoed in the empty room and he did not know whether he referred to Holmes, Mary or both.

He was tired of being alone. He was tired of each day being precisely the same as the one before it. He was tired of missing Holmes. He was tired of missing Mary and he was tired of his life being defined by their absences. The trouble was it had been so long that he didn't really want to part with it. He could easily meet more women, he could make new friends and he could stop writing up Holmes's cases.

None of those activities had any appeal to him, though. There was no incentive to replace these dear people. No matter how tired he was of the pointlessness of his existence the fact was he would do what he could to keep his loved ones as close to him as possible and this was the way he'd chosen to do it. It wasn't healthy but it was comfortable.

A knock at the door brought him back to reality and, as he helped Mrs. McLachlan into a seat, he set himself to the task at hand.

- - -

Watson was disgusted to find that his copy of "A Tale of Two Cities" was nowhere to be found. He knew that he had a copy; he had bought it the day that it was published in a single volume. The book had survived a tour in Afghanistan but it appeared to have lost itself during the move from Baker Street, he was surprised that it had taken him this long to notice it.

That meant another trip to the book shop. He was both eager and apprehensive about returning to the store but it was convenient and had a very orderly layout. Nothing was more desirable to Watson in a bookstore than an orderly layout. He gathered he'd go to this bookstore if Moran himself were the proprietor simply because the layout was so good. He walked to the corner with, dare he say it, a _bounce_ in his step and opened the door with a smile. The smile was replaced with slack jaw within moments.

His copy of "A Tale of Two Cities" was lying spine up beside the register.

It was without a doubt his copy. It was a bit more well thumbed than he remembered it but he knew every crease and mark on that book's cover and there was a good story for every one of them. The most entertaining one was the chemical burn on the back cover when Holmes had decided to use it as a resting place for one of his chemical beakers.

Holmes…The publishing house murder! Holmes had wanted his copy of the novel because it was made from the same paper as the paper used to wipe up the victim's blood. Watson had let him have it with the assurances that Holmes wouldn't further ruin it.

Now that he thought about it the Publishing House case had happened just before the Moriarty affair. He did not remember Holmes ever returning the novel before that case had commenced.

What in God's name was it doing here?

A crash echoed from a descending staircase behind the desk and an outraged voice shouted from the depths in perfect French. "_PETIT CON! Petit TAS de MERDE!"_

John Watson could not speak French. He understood "bonjour", "merci", "au revoir" and few other words but he was intimately familiar with French profanity because of the late Sherlock Holmes. He knew exactly what was being said and, more importantly, he knew that voice. That voice just so happened to belong to two people: the old, eccentric book seller and the late Sherlock Holmes.

"This is impossible," he said in a whisper to the empty shop. Sherlock Holmes was dead. It was a cruel certainty he had lived with everyday for the past two years.

But there had been no body, he was swiftly reminded. _There had been no body_. Falling from a waterfall did not cause a body to vanish. Swept away, yes, but he still should have been found. Nothing had been found.

Moriarty had not been found either though. There was no whisper of Moriarty and he'd certainly have returned with a triumph had he lived. Would Holmes not have done the same? If Holmes was alive and Moriarty was dead why was he in hiding? Or was Moriarty alive also?

He shook his head. Holmes was dead. Holmes was dead. HOLMES WAS DEAD.

He put his hand on the counter to steady himself and his hand met a well thumbed copy of i_The Strand_./i It was folded open to "The Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual" and was covered with a hand he knew better than his own. Watson found himself too moved to read anything clearly but he knew that hand. He didn't need to read it to know beyond a doubt that Holmes had taken out a subscription to _The Strand_ and had read his stories, and maybe had been reading all along.

More French cursing filled the store. Holmes had always had a remarkably loud voice when enraged.

_Present tense_, the voice of Sherlock Holmes in his head chided him. _I _have _a remarkably loud voice when enraged. I am quite dramatic you know._

Watson was not accepting this that easily. This was impossible, he thought again.

_Really it's only improbable, my dear Watson. _

Impossible.

_Merely improbable I assure you. There clearly lies a novel of yours that I never returned, my handwriting adorns your most recent publication and you are quite obviously hearing my voice. If you eliminate the impossible…_

"Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," Watson finished in a horrified whisper.

"Hallo?" Now that Watson knew what he was listening for, he could hear Holmes's voice quite clearly behind the gruff, raspy syllables of the old bookseller. "Is anyone up there?"

Watson felt quite certain he was going to faint and fled the store. When he was safely in his sitting room with a glass of brandy in his hand he attempted to go over what he had seen again but could not make himself do it. His heart was singing for joy that Holmes was alive while his mind only wanted to know why. Why was he hiding? Why was hiding from _him?_

"That's enough." He downed the rest of his brandy. He needed to talk this out. He needed someone to walk through the facts with him who had a more linear and evidence based mind than he did. He was far too emotionally invested in this to think clearly.

There was only one person to ask. He reached for a telegraph form. He only hoped that their lunch hours coincided enough. Watson was not above closing his office down in order to suit Lestrade's schedule. He had always been ready to drop everything for Holmes and now was no exception. Especially if Holmes was in danger.


	5. Wednesday, 3 May, 1893

"You're certain it was his voice, doctor?"

Watson took a generous sip of his water and glared at Inspector Lestrade. "Do you remember when I was taken ill after the Redfern robbery? Winter of '88?"

Lestrade nodded gravely as he sampled some more steak. Watson knew some good had to come out of that nearly two week long period of delirium.

Watson took another sip of water. "I will be the first to admit that I didn't know who I was or where I was during that time. I did, however, know Holmes's voice." He lowered his voice and filled it with as much iron mastery as he could. "If I could identify his voice whilst out of my mind with fever and pain I am _fairly certain_ I can identify it while perfectly healthy."

A silence fell between the two friends and Watson was glad for the rather vacant restaurant. He was quite sure he would have drawn a few stares by this point. Being stared at a restaurant was nothing new to him but he didn't want to draw any undue attention to the subject at hand. Assuming, of course, that subject at hand was actually a valid one.

Lestrade finally nodded. "Point taken, doctor, now the question is do you think it is likely?"

Watson sighed. He took a moment to compose himself, covering his uncertainty by taking a few more bites from his lunch, before finally answering. "I am not sure. It seems to be so but I cannot believe he would do something like this."

"I can," Lestrade muttered. "He has done it to you before."

"I know," Watson acknowledged through grit teeth. "And that is not the issue. I pose you the same question: do you think it is likely?"

This pause in between statements really had to stop, Watson decided. Nothing was going to get talked about or decided or done if it took a full five minutes to phrase a question. He was a writer and Lestrade was no strange to communication either. This was ridiculous.

"You say that you can't figure out why Holmes would be in hiding if this were true?"

Watson bit back his annoyance at his question being deflected. He knew the look on Lestrade's ferret-like face. He was on to something. "The only reason I can think of for Holmes to be in hiding is if Moriarty was still alive. However if the professor were alive surely he would have announced it by now, proclaiming victory over Holmes. Unless he is in hiding as well…"

Lestrade reached out a hand to squeeze Watson's arm then turned hailed a waiter. "Why are you ordering us brandy?" Watson asked. Lestrade had strict rules about drinking on the job.

"You're going to need it." The brandy appeared and the Yarder automatically pushed the slightly larger helping to Watson. "I have neglected to tell you something important."

Watson shut his eyes. He thought of the worst shocks he could think of: that Lestrade and Holmes were conspiring together, that Holmes was dead, that he was insane, that Moriarty himself was sitting across from him….

"We did find Professor Moriarty's body."

"WHAT?"

"Keep your voice down and drink your drink, doctor-"

"You said nothing had ever been found, of either of them!"

"Moriarty was found a week or so after you left Switerland," Lestrade explained. He was trying to be gentle. Some part of Watson was grateful for that. "By that point you'd just found out that Mary's health was taking a turn for the worst and we were hoping to keep the news quiet in order to draw out some more detailed confessions from the men we did catch. There's no use in keeping a dead man's secrets." Lestrade bowed his head. "I was going to tell you, but then I was hoping that perhaps Mr. Holmes's remains would turn up as well and I would have much rather told you that than that I'd found that scum's corpse and not your friend's. Then Mary got worse…"

Then Mary got worse. Watson remembered that well. Mary's illness had not been a swift killer. It had been a long, slow decline until she'd gasped her last breath in absolute agony. Like Watson had been several years before, she hadn't been able to recognize anyone with her at the end. Not even the husband that had clutched so desperately to her hand.

Then Mary had died and then Watson had become ill. Those events, piled with other duties, piled with Watson's own avoidance behaviours and, at times, fragile state, did not exactly allow for such news to be given.

Watson sipped his drink. Paused and then took another sip. Lestrade was obviously uncomfortable, looking all the world like a schoolboy awaiting punishment from the headmaster. "Settle down," he said in exasperation. "I understand why you never told me and I forgive you for it. I'm more relieved that we have proof he is dead than anything else."

Lestrade nodded his thanks and took a sizable drink of his brandy. "We never found anything of Holmes, above water or below" Lestrade continued. "Nothing except what you found."

"And water falls do not disintegrate a body," Watson stated by way of conclusion.

"They most certainly do not," Lestrade agreed.

"So," Watson took another mouthful of food. "If he is alive he is not hiding from Moriarty."

"Then it is as you said," Lestrade sighed. "If he were alive who else would he be hiding from?"

Who indeed? Moriarty was the only adversary whom Holmes had been openly afraid of. Moriarty and his air gun. He'd taken great pains to not be seen as himself while they'd been in England…

Air guns. Holmes had been quite adamant that Moriarty would send his agents to do any sort of indirect killing for him. He'd been certain that when Moriarty came for him it would be fists and nothing else. If Moriarty would have it as fists and nothing else, then who was it who was firing at them with the air gun?

_Come onto the continent with me_

"You alright?" Lestrade's question shocked Watson out of his reverie and the next words he spoke he was sure were spoken at a speed unknown to the English. He was even more surprised that Lestrade understood him.

"Air guns?" Lestrade blanched. "No, doctor, none of those men have air guns!"

"Someone did," Watson assured him and babbled out the story. Lestrade sat back in his chair, deep in thought. Watson tried to do the same but it seemed that all this talk and this excitement, something he'd been without for so long and doubled with the fact that _Holmes was alive_, was doing nothing for his better sense.

"Someone was with him," Lestrade whispered.

Watson felt his mouth dropping open but quickly stopped it. "Yes!" he agreed. "Of course!"

"Holmes and Moriarty are quite similar if you look at the basic facts," Lestrade rambled on. "Their methods are the same, you yourself said Holmes had no problems anticipating him and it is clear that most of the time Moriarty could anticipate him." He pointed at Watson. "Holmes brought you along; you're a good shot and valuable partner, some one who will see the job through if he fails. Surely Moriarty had a right hand man also, an equally good shot and partner. And someone who would finish what his master started."

"Which gives us who he is hiding from and the reason!" Lestrade hushed him again and Watson found he had to bite his lip to keep from jumping up. He'd figured it out! He and Lestrade had figured it all out. There had been a witness to Holmes's escape and it was that man who had to disappear in order for Holmes to emerge once more

The one thing they didn't know was who this man was, and Lestrade and Watson could not simply march over to the book store and unmask Holmes without knowing who this man was and getting rid of him. The man was in London and was very dangerous, that much was clear. Neither man, however, could think of such a person alive that could compel the great detective to go to ground.

"He must be behaving himself," Lestrade lamented.

"It is an impasse," Watson agreed. "If this man gives himself away, Holmes will expose him. If Holmes comes out of hiding he's a dead man." _Twice dead_.

Lestrade nodded but his expression did not show complete agreement. "There has to be something else. Holmes is a formidable man and if he'd contacted any of us, more likely all of us, we could have closed in around him and put him away by now. There's some other reason he's in hiding. There has to be." He finished off his meal and pushed the plate away from him. "Any ideas?"

"None," Watson said sourly as he pushed his own half finished plate. "However…I have one source."

"Who?"

"Holmes's brother."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Do you think he's assisting Holmes?"

Watson shrugged. "Holmes always said that Mycroft has superior deductive powers than himself. If anyone can divine a reason, or who this right hand of Moriarty's is, he can."

"I'll review the case notes," Lestrade offered. "I was not present for all of the interrogations; I may have to do some again." He pulled out his pocketbook to settle the bill at batted off Watson's attempt to cover his share. "You go on after Mr. Holmes," he paused awkwardly at the use of the name. "I'll contact you in the next day or two with news."

"Thank you, Lestrade."

Lestrade smiled. "I may not always show it, doctor, but it is always my pleasure to work with you, Mr. Holmes, or both." His expression turned slightly more serious. "You work well alone but you always worked the best when you were together, Holmes included."

"I think," Watson mused. "We might have been at our best in every possible way when we were together."

"Get that nostalgic tone out of your voice this second. Your friend is alive and he needs your help. Get to it!"

Watson smiled. He rushed out with a light hearted "yes sir," convinced that nothing in the world could stop him now. He had the truth, or at least a good portion of it, and heaven help the man who tried to stop him now.

- - -

Mycroft Holmes was not talking. If he knew anything at all about it he was certainly not going to divulge anything to anyone. Even his brother's friend and partner. Beyond not revealing anything, Mycroft appeared to not even consider the possibility that his brother was alive.

"I regret having to ask you this but have you seen a physician recently?"

"I am quite well," Watson assured him.

"That is not an answer, which implies –"

"Which implies that I haven't seen anyone," Watson finished testily. "I am not imagining this, Mr. Holmes."

The elder Holmes sighed. "Have you taken note of tomorrow's date?"

It took Watson a moment to deduce exactly what was being referred to. "Are you implying that I have come to these conclusions because of the fact that tomorrow is the second anniversary of his disappearance?"

"His death you mean," Mycroft corrected, "and I was not implying anything. I know that this has been upsetting for you, more upsetting than even my brother could have anticipated but he would not approve of these foolish fancies. He doubtless would be flattered that you would consider him to be able to cheat death in this matter but he, I believe you and I both know, would not want you pining after him."

"I am not a love sick schoolboy, sir. And I know he is alive."

"You know nothing!" Mycroft's rose from his chair and Watson could almost swear that he had tripled in size. Jupiter himself was standing before Watson and he was enraged. It was probably a poor idea to interrupt the man's schedule after all. "You have theories but absolutely no facts."

Watson stiffened. "I can procure that copy of the magazine and my novel I'm sure."

"I'm sure you can and I will not see what you see. I will see an old bookseller's comments on a set of mediocre stories and a battered popular novel. My brother is dead. No amount of your imagination can resurrect him. I wish it could but no man's imagination is that powerful."

That was a challenge, or at least Watson read it as such. "There are too many unknowns to declare him dead, which is why we have never made the fact publically known. We should not have thought him dead in the first place."

Mycroft settled back into his chair. "Perhaps not," he agreed. "However it has been two years and I do not see him walking the streets of London. He is not capable of this sort of treachery to you or to me. One of us would have been told."

Watson bit back that he thought quite certainly that Mycroft knew Holmes was alive and that Holmes had told him. Part of him stung that Holmes had not confided in him but there were always reasons for these choices. He did not enjoy being placed in these situations but there were always perfectly good reasons.

And it was in that moment he realised that he had to let Mycroft think he had talked him out of it. Watson knew what he had seen he had no doubt of it and his discussion with Lestrade had solidified his beliefs. It had been a mistake to come here at all. If Mycroft admitted it all, that yes Holmes was alive and he was in correspondence with him and told the entire tale, what then? They would still have to wait. The right hand man had managed this long without killing Holmes or doing something that would land him in the dock. Who knew how much longer this man could hold out?

He would have to provoke the man, whoever he was. He would have to say something, lead him to do something that would give him away. This would doubtless interfere with the waiting game that the Holmes brothers were playing but it did not matter. Clearly it had been decided that all the danger would be with Holmes and not near him. All he had received was grief, safety and grief. He reminded himself to mention that he preferred danger to grief when next he spoke to his friend.

"You're right," he acquiesced, hoping his voice sounded suitably defeated. Mycroft might be able to read through this but he severely hoped that Mycroft would underestimate him.

"Go home and rest," Mycroft said kindly. "I still maintain you don't look at all well."

Watson nodded, thanked Mycroft for his time, and left the Diogenes Club. Sherlock Holmes would have suspected something, would have known that he'd given up too easily. Mycroft Holmes did not know him quite so well. He hoped that counted more in his favour than anything else.

With that one source exhausted there was one other place he could check to discover the identity of the right hand man. Holmes kept very precise case notes, notes that were often in complete disarray and would take half a day to get through. He did not know where those case notes were but he knew that Mrs. Hudson would know. He hoped she hadn't thrown them away. He also found himself hoping that she did not say she had given them to Mycroft. Any requests to see the notes would probably be denied. He cursed himself for not thinking of the case notes sooner. It would have greatly simplified matters and it was now too late to call.

The practice would be shut down tomorrow, Watson decided. He had closed it down for part for part of the day on the fourth of May last year. Closing it for the full day would not be suspicious. He'd go about his normal routine in case anyone asked and, more importantly, in case Holmes saw. He hoped that Mycroft would say nothing to his brother, he probably would not simply out of principle. He hoped.

Watson was not sure he liked the fact that his plan, or rather idea, rested on a pile of hopes. It was more than he'd had in recent years and he'd take what he could get. If he failed, if all of this was simply an illusion, he'd check himself into Bedlam with the knowledge that he had at least done all that he could.

At the very least he could, finally, say that.


	6. Thursday, 4 May, 1893

The moment that Mrs. Hudson opened the door of 221B Baker Street Watson knew that it had been far too long since he had seen her. His former landlady's tendency to hover and make sure that he was well taken care of, previously something that had sometimes been irksome, was something he had missed. Her eyes lit up brighter than anything he'd ever seen and she threw her arms about him, hugging him tightly and telling him in almost sorrowful tones how happy she was to see him. Watson found himself hugging her back just as tightly, almost so tight that he was sure anyone passing by would be utterly scandalised. He didn't mind. It had been too long since he'd seen Mrs. Hudson and it had been too long since he'd been embraced.

His former landlady drew back and held him by the shoulders. "Look at you," she fawned in an awed whisper. "Look at you."

Watson smiled. "Lovely to see you, Mrs. Hudson."

She nodded, a smile bright enough to match her eyes now decorating her face. "Come in. I'll put the kettle on."

- - -

It was both a comfort and a horror to discover that the rooms at 221B Baker Street had been unchanged since he had last set foot in them. Watson's room had never been let out, despite his having moved out years ago, and still contained a freshly made bed along with a few articles of clothing and some notebooks that Watson had left here in case of long stays.

The sitting room and Holmes's room were quite recognizable despite them being tidier than they had perhaps ever been. That was the only thing that kept Watson firmly in the present. He did not live here anymore and neither did Holmes, or at least not at present.

Mrs. Hudson had revealed to him that Mycroft Holmes had told her that these rooms were to be preserved. Not a paper touched and not a thing removed. He paid her a king's ransom to keep it that way so she tried her best to hold her tongue on what she thought of the situation. "It's quite ghastly, really," she told him as she cleared up the remnants of their tea. "It cannot be healthy. Certainly hasn't been good for me on some days, walking in to clean and finding everything exactly as it had been."

Watson could not argue with that. He was haunted enough outside of Baker Street with precious few physical reminders of the dearly departed. He would have lost his senses years ago had he continued to live in a place where everything still awaited their master's return.

Watson knew he had a habit of making the mistake that he was the only one that had mourned the loss of Holmes. He had not been the only one at the funeral after all. His own pain and loss blinded him to the pain and loss of those around him. "I'm sorry I never visited before," he told her solemnly.

Mrs. Hudson smiled gently and reached out a hand to touch his shoulder. "Don't be," she soothed. "I know it is difficult being back here and I know the reason you're here now must be something awfully important." Her smile faded. "I could have visited you myself, you know." She moved toward the door. "It was always difficult for me, you understand, to see you alone. It was even difficult seeing him alone here." She seemed as though she wanted, or more likely needed, to say something more but could not articulate it.

He understood though and he told her so. They were so apart of each other's lives that it was hard to separate them and deal with them separately. Watson wondered if Holmes had felt just as off balanced as he had during the past two years. He hoped he'd have the opportunity to ask him.

"I'll leave you with the papers then," Mrs. Hudson said. "I don't suppose I have to tell you to put it all back where you found them."

The doctor laughed and Mrs. Hudson let out her own chuckle as she left him alone. Holmes had a simple alphabetical system for his scattered case files. The files were no more than names, an index of anyone who he had faced or had come under his attention. Some were brief entries, some were constantly being added to, but the volume of the collection was massive.

Watson had no idea where to begin. Holmes had sent Scotland Yard all the papers in his notes needed to convict the gang and he began to doubt if he would find anything Moriarty related here. This right hand man was well protected. Whatever part this man had played in these affairs was shielded. His name was obviously not in the papers that Holmes had assembled for the police. Watson, however, had great faith in his friend. Holmes knew who this man was and had him listed here. There may not have been enough evidence to convict the man but Holmes had had his eye on him.

If he didn't Watson had no idea what his next move would be.

He reached for what he assumed to be the 'A' volume to start with but upon opening it he saw that he had grasped the 'M' instead. Holmes must have set the volume down after taking what information he had about Moriarty out of it. Watson flipped to find the late professor's name and found it all there. Things had been added into the margins and things had been crossed out and revised. Watson had never personally read the index on Moriarty, and he knew that the police had to have gone over these several times. Lestrade might even be paging through them at this very moment. Watson did not consider himself as adept as these two men but he gathered that a fresh pair of eyes could not hurt manners.

It was some moments later when he caught another familiar name on the preceding page with a harshly scribbled comment in the margins.

_Moran, Colonel Sebastian. The second most dangerous man in London._

Watson read through that passage as quickly and as thoroughly as he has studied his medical textbooks while still at university. There, near the bottom of this detailed sketch of an honourable soldier, was written another quick notation: _Moriarty's Watson._ It was written in a firm hand; a declaration of fact and not a speculation.

Holmes had never made his attempts to shield him while on cases obvious, especially when they themselves were engaged with something illegal, but Watson knew very well that Holmes always had something in place. When Watson became aware of them he quite often objected to them. It was both or none in this partnership as he saw it and he made sure that Holmes knew his opinion. Typically Holmes agreed with him. There were, however, always exceptions and, though Watson never enjoyed this, he had to admit that the situation had indeed called for it. Perhaps Moriarty had a similar approach when it came to his partner in crime. Moriarty had spent most of his career being completely free of any suspicion, as did all of his agents.

But when they were all exposed, Moran remained at large. It was a practical move. Something that no doubt Holmes would himself had done. It was also a very human portrait of the criminal mastermind. Whatever practical move this might have been, the act of one friend trying to protect another shone through the darkness.

That humanity, however, did not excuse their actions. Watson pulled out his notebook and diligently copied the entry on Moran, including the previously missed mention of Moriarty having ordered an air gun made for him. With that he filed the 'M' volume back in its proper place and headed for the nearest florist shop.

Today was the fourth of May. If he was being observed, by Mycroft's men or otherwise, it would do well to stick to routine as much as possible. Today was a day of sorrow in his sorrowful existence. Best to continue to treat it as such.

- - -

Watson had entertained stepping into a church for a few moments but had disregarded it as too obvious and out of step with how he had observed the date last year. Last year he had spent the anniversary where he was standing, which was at the inconspicuous grave marker that marked the so called passing of Sherlock Holmes. He had stood there, keeping a vigil for a time and then recalled meeting Lestrade for a drink. Lestrade was busy right now, still dealing with reviewing the Moriarty case on the Yard's end of things. He had stopped by to see how things were progressing to find nothing but Lestrade's assistant telling him that he could not be disturbed and that he would wire him when he had anything to share. Requests of urgency had not moved the perhaps somewhat overeager constable but it was probably better than he continue to spend the day in mourning.

Holmes had found leaving flowers at a gravesite pointless and overly sentimental. The recipient of the flowers would never see them and served no real practical purpose. That had never stopped Watson from coming with small bundle of lilies. Lilies were the flowers of mourning after all and he had always gathered that Holmes would have approved of his selection. He typically brought roses to Mary's graves, sometimes her ever favourite forget me nots. Forget me nots seemed quite appropriate for his wife. He had, if he was honest, had neglected her for Holmes and on the days that she'd felt particularly put aside she'd leave him forget me nots. Now Mary was gone, finally at peace and reunited with her family, so Watson left her the same flowers in kind.

He had a single forget me not in his hand. After he laid the lilies down on Holmes's marker he rested the forget me not there as well. He really did not understand why he did so, also did not understand why he planned to stand here and mourn for a few moments and then neglect Mary entirely, but it just seemed to fit for this time. He was being 'recalled to life' as Dickens would put it. There was no time and no reason to dwell in the past anymore. He was emerging from the fog. It was about time he returned. About time they both returned.

A small cluster of pansies were tossed onto the gravestone. Watson took a shocked few steps back, almost losing his balance as he turned to see Colonel Sebastian Moran at his left wearing an expression of seemingly sincere grief. "How long has he been gone?" he asked with the voice of a grieving loved one. Watson raged at that. He knew on the outside there was little reaction but inside he was an inferno. The only thing that Moran grieved was that he hadn't dispatched of Holmes and that he hadn't been able to complete a task that Moriarty had probably asked of him. Watson understood that pain, understood that grief, and that fact also angered him.

"Two years today," he informed his guest. Moran already knew that though, he had already come with flowers after all. He had to keep up the ruse, though. He knew that he couldn't dissimilate to save his life but he could lie by omission if he had to. Moran had not discovered, at least Watson hoped he had not discovered, that he knew that Holmes was alive. That had obviously been part of whatever plan Holmes had had after escaping death. While he did not appreciate this role he knew that he had to continue playing it as long as possible.

"My condolences." Watson considered it a feat worthy of national recognition that he did not flinch at those words. His unwanted companion walked closer to regard the stone with the eye of a hunter who was trying to confirm that his prey was in fact dead. "Why do you write as though he is alive then?"

That question had been a question that he had never been able to answer. It had no answer and it also had several. One of the more practical ones was that he wrote them that way because it put criminals on the alert. Another was that it made for better story telling. While those were true the more accurate responses were personal ones and not practical, and those were reasons would not be shared with a man such as Colonel Moran.

Watson shrugged. "When I started writing he was still alive," he answered after a moment. "I saw no reason to change a narrative style that worked perfectly well." He faced his enemy head on. He made his face as impassive as he could manage but knew that Moran had to see some of the dislike there. It had been a mistake, perhaps, to face Moran so brazenly but it could not be helped now.

The colonel stared back at him and not a single emotion could be read from his face. "I do not believe you," he intoned. It was a challenge and an announcement, almost a declaration of war.

Watson shrugged again. "I am sorry to hear that but he is dead." He pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it. "I must be off and I would respectively request you keep that information to yourself. I will reveal all in due time."

Moran did not reply. Watson bid him good day and turned his back on the man, a man that was for certain glaring daggers into him. He did not turn, did not even glance over his shoulder as he passed the gate and did not look out of the cab he hailed.

First things first, he thought. He would wire Lestrade to meet him for lunch again tomorrow. Hopefully Lestrade would abandon his search through the official police reports and listen to his own evidence.

He would also dig his old service revolver out of his desk drawer. He had not needed it two years but he feared he might have much use for it over the next few days.


	7. Friday, 5 May, 1893

Inspector Lestrade had worked in the business of crime longer than Watson had, longer than Holmes had as well. At least he thought so. That being said he had watched Lestrade be surprised again and again by Holmes's solutions to a myriad of complicated crimes that Lestrade, through all of his professional experience, had managed to overlook. Watson had always enjoyed, perhaps a bit regrettably, watching Holmes get the better of the inspector but he found that accomplishing the feat himself alone was much more enjoyable.

"Moran?" Lestrade gaped with barely restrained disbelief. "Moran and _Moriarty_? I would never have guessed it!"

"Neither would I," Watson agreed. "His entry in Holmes's index reads like the career of an admirable soldier. Not a stitch of tendencies toward the criminal at all."

Lestrade nodded. "That's precisely what I thought! He is a member of a very prominent club, he does charity work, he is still somewhat active in his old regiment. I honestly cannot see where he has _time _for deviant behaviour. Now or before."

That had been the idea all along, Watson knew. A couple had walked by the restaurant where he and the inspector were enjoying a more than satisfactory luncheon. They appeared to be a perfectly decent couple, certainly a lady and a gentleman, and no one would ever think to associate them with criminality.

A young boy selling papers who had witnessed them attempting to steal his earnings had had the entire street up in arms. Lestrade had not needed to step in, a local beat constable had taken care of everything, but it illustrated the issue of Colonel Sebastian Moran. As long as no one looked his way, as long as he was careful, no one would discover his true nature. Holmes had discovered it and now he was threatened because of it. Watson knew he was certainly in jeopardy himself and by extension he was placing Lestrade into the same situation. Lestrade had waved his concern off but Watson worried nevertheless. It was one thing to risk his life. It was quite another to ask another to risk his.

"He wasn't mentioned in the reports at all," Lestrade continued on in between mouthfuls of salad. Perhaps the inspector thought the speed at which he reached the bottom of his salad would correspond to the speed of which he would understand how his people had failed to miss the existence of the most important member of Moriarty's gang. "Though why should I expect it," he finally decided. "We discussed this earlier: Moran was never meant to be found. Never would have been found if it hadn't been for you, doctor."

The words were amiable but his face was the picture of self loathing. "I wouldn't have known if I hadn't been searching for my copy of "A Tale of Two Cities" " he reminded his friend. "We were both fooled. Only Holmes knew and he obviously was and is not in a position to let us know or he'd have done so."

"If only we knew what that position was!" Lestrade lamented. He set his fork down, obviously defeated by the pile of greenery before him. "Holmes's brother said nothing?" he asked again. "Didn't even acknowledge anything?"

Watson shook his head. "Not a word. He was convinced it was more my own delusions than anything else." Watson paused and took a sip of his coffee, nearly yelping at how hot it was. "I don't believe him though," he said in between sips from the glass of water a vigilant waiter had provided. "He must know something."

Lestrade nodded determinedly and waved the same waiter down again and asked for the bill. "I say we go over there together, you and I, and try again."

"I don't imagine that will help," Watson said as lightly as he could. "No offence intended, Lestrade, but I think that the presence of an officer of the law will make him less likely to talk."

"Why would you imagine that?"

Because I believe contempt toward the official police is a trait that runs in the Holmes family, Watson thought. Instead he merely shrugged and stated his concerns again. Lestrade huffed a huff of almost Holmes-esque nature and urged Watson along as he once again covered the tab.

- - -

"I warned you, did I not?"

Lestrade appeared to be on the verge of saying something truly foul but contented himself with grinding his teeth in a most annoying manner. "I have never met such a frustrating person and that includes our mutual friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Had the circumstances not been so frustrating Watson would have burst out laughing and asked for him to sign a paper to that effect. He settled with simply being somewhat amused through the frustration of Mycroft refusing to cooperate. It was an admirable trait that Mycroft was so dedicated to protecting his brother but he had hoped that Mycroft would have felt free to disclose any sort of information with two of his brother's associates. Apparently that had been too much to ask and the elder Holmes had been incredibly annoyed by his routine being disturbed yet again. Especially on a fool's errand and a sorry set of delusions as he had said; along with a few choice other insults that had Watson even more convinced that he and Lestrade were right.

"Holmes, Sherlock I mean," Watson said to Lestrade as the other man readied to commence a rant on the subject of Watson's treatment, "would always viciously insult me when he was trying to protect me or keep me out of something. I'm willing to wager that Mycroft functions along the same lines."

Lestrade considered that for a moment and then shook his head in resigned frustration. "Is it simply in the Holmes's bloodline to be so damned insufferable?"

He had to smile at that. "I believe the evidence speaks for itself."

A snort was all the reply the inspector gave. "I ought to have him for obstruction of justice."

"That wouldn't work and you know it."

"I know, but it is a tempting thought." Lestrade smiled and then glanced at his watch. "I'd best be heading back to the Yard. Aside from this state of affairs I've got a fair pile of paperwork to get through."

Watson nodded. "I should do the same. Doctor Grant has been far too accommodating as it is."

"Abandoning your practice in favour of criminal investigation? Just like the old days." One corner of the inspector's mouth lifted. "I hope they will return soon." A cab rounded the corner and with a tip of his hat, and an order to wire him at the slightest news, he was gone.

Watson was keenly aware of his solitude. It was a state of affairs that he had been so used to over the past two years but now it was both unwanted and unsafe. He was supremely vigilant during his walk back to his practice and was partly unsurprised to be confronted by Colonel Moran before reaching it. What surprised and frightened him, and he tried desperately to keep Moran from knowing that, was that they were currently located in front of the bookstore. And the proprietor of said bookstore in the process of drawing the blinds and would, thus, be able to see and possibly hear anything that transpired.

Moran wasted no time. "I said I do not believe you and my opinion is unchanged." A hunter's triumphant grin crossed his face. "I believe you are protecting him. You know exactly where he is and, I assure you, it would be in your best interests to tell me."

Watson did not have to turn his head to know that that the figure in the store had stopped pulling the blinds. He could not afford to turn his head. As much as he had discovered there was far more that he did not know. He did not know if the location of this altercation was chosen deliberately or not. He did know if Holmes had any idea of what Watson knew. Despite the gravity of the situation Watson could not help but wonder if Holmes could decipher everything from the way he was standing and the way he was not answering right away.

Moran picked up on that as well. "You have nothing to say to that, I see."

"I have nothing to say because one does not answer insanity." He liked that one, Watson decided. Mycroft Holmes did have some interesting turns of phrase.

The colonel did not seem to appreciate it. Moran's face remained the picture of civility but his eyes, those horrible eyes, showed the demon within. "You really believe he is dead then?"

"Where else would he be?" Watson asked angrily. "He's been gone for two years."

"He has not been declared dead though," Moran countered. "And you visited Baker Street today for the first time in two years. Has he returned with instructors for his vigilant lieutenant?"

That was a shocking thing to hear. That he truly had never been alone, that one of the most dangerous men in London had kept his eye on him. That explained Moran's appearance as a patient. It was perfect and Watson had always kept an unvarying schedule. His habits had changed which meant something had changed. He prayed Mrs. Hudson would come to no harm from this. He would warn her as soon as he got out of this.

Watson glared at his antagonist. "I have received no 'orders' as you call them. There are no orders to receive because the person you are referring to is dead! Now I have no idea what you want with him or me but I assure you that he is dead. Any score you had to settle with him cannot be settled and you have none with me. Now, if you will excuse me, I have urgent business to attend to."

Moran did not even attempt to stop him and Watson kept walking straight ahead. His gut twisted with the fear that Moran would suddenly draw a revolver and shoot him in the back. He reached his practice without incident though. He drew the blinds and nearly collided with Eliza Martingrove as she was on her way out. "Something the matter, sir?" She studied him for a moment. "It's That Man again isn't it?"

He didn't bother replying. "You pass by a telegraph office on the way home do you not?"

"Ah…yes, I—Doctor what are you doing?!"

He did not bother talking to his maid. He simply attacked his desk and grabbed two telegraph forms. On one he wrote a warning to Mrs. Hudson to keep her guard up, and perhaps go visit her sister for a while. On the other he wrote a plea for Inspector Lestrade to come to his practice immediately and to come armed. He thrust them into Eliza's hands. "Send these on your way, please." Eliza barely had time to give her assurances as Watson shoved her to out to the garden and ordered to take extreme care when walking home, and to take some time off. He would contact her when she was free to return.

Once Eliza was gone he drew closed any more shutters and curtains. Soon enough he was alone in the dark with his old service revolver at his side. His heart pumping faster than it had in recent memory. The old life was back but he was far from ready for it. He was also alone this was something he had never happened in the old days.

"Lestrade will arrive soon," he said with a slight breathless quiver to the empty room. "Lestrade will arrive soon."

That was what Watson said but the only person whom he really wanted to see at that moment was Sherlock Holmes.


	8. Saturday, 6 May, 1893

Inspector Lestrade had arrived armed with his police revolver, spare ammunition and a stack of pre addressed telegraph forms less than an hour after Eliza had left. He had already stopped by Doctor Grant's office and told him that Watson had asked for him to oversee his practice until further notice. This business was getting serious and it was obvious that it was going to be a full time job. Lestrade himself had transferred all his current cases via those forms throughout the night.

They slept in half hour watches, remaining in Watson's sitting room for the entire night and most of the morning.

At precisely nine o'clock in the morning, while the two men were attempting to piece together some form of breakfast, a telegram arrived from Mr. Mycroft Holmes requesting their immediate presence as his lodgings in Pall Mall. "About bloody time," Lestrade muttered. Watson shared the sentiment. Less than half an hour later the doctor and the inspector were sipping tea and attacking any food that was brought out for them. When their pace slowed the servants vanished leaving the two men alone with Mycroft Holmes. There were two of them there but the elder Holmes's attention was fixed upon Watson. "You are more tenacious than you let on, doctor."

It was delivered in such a pure, matter-of-fact tone that Watson found himself at somewhat of a loss as to how to respond to it. It was neither a compliment nor an insult, simply a statement of the fact. He elected to raise his teacup in a salute of some sort and let Mycroft read what he would into that gesture.

Mycroft's expression was unreadable. Had this been Sherlock, Watson would have been able to deduce his thoughts and emotions from the look in his eyes. He didn't know why he expected to be able to read Myrcoft, a man barely knew, in the same manner. A small glint of recognition appeared in the dark irises, a much more solid grey than his brother's, and that was all. "It is an admirable trait," he continued. "But if places me in an extremely awkward position."

Lestrade piped up. "How so?"

"You have no doubt inferred, even with your lesser powers of perception, that my calling you here confirms your suspicions as to the condition of our mutual friend. He wished keep all those he did not wish to see come to harm out of the affair entirely. I myself have had limited contact." Mycroft paused and snorted. "Typically these communiqués are simply requests for funds but when one wishes others to believe he has passed on such things become harder to obtain."

It was long winded and, dare he think it, slightly dramatic confirmation of Holmes's being alive but it was precisely that. Watson could not stop himself from letting out a sight of relief. It had been greatly heartening to find that Lestrade had agreed with his logic but it was a special relief to have that confirmed definitely.

"You may feel relieved, doctor," Mycroft continued. "But I do not think you understand precisely what it means to incur the wrath of Colonel Sebastian Moran. That is why you were to be kept out of it at all costs."

There were several more polite responses he could give than the one that left his lips. He was a guest at Mycroft's home and the fact that the man was even discussing this was cause for one's best behaviour. Watson though, now realising exactly what the confirmation that Holmes was alive meant for himself, decided against that.

"Mr. Holmes, I am quite fed up with other people, notably our _mutual friend_, making my decisions for me. I do not enjoy being made to believe that a friend is dead for two years. I do not appreciate being made to feel like I've gone mad when I question that fact." Mycroft's expression remained annoyingly blank through this speech but Watson pressed on. "I appreciate the concern for my safety but the decision to be kept out of things was mine. Now I do not care what promises you gave or what orders he has given with regards to me. There is a fine line and he has leapt far beyond it. This is my choice and I want to help no matter what dangers I am aware or unaware of."

Lestrade was giving him quite the "shut up man!" look while Mycroft remained as inexpressive as a stone garrison. It softened for a moment. "I do believe, this is the most alive you have felt in two years has it not?"

Watson did not answer. It was an attempt at deflection and he would not fall for it.

Lestrade hesitantly cleared his throat. "You both have given Dr. Watson less credit that he deserves," he told Mycroft. Part of Watson smirked at the Inspector lecturing Jupiter himself. "That is something that I'm sure Watson will have to discuss with Mr. Holmes himself." He did not shy away from the use of Holmes's name, as they had been doing to this point. There really was no reason to it and it was something that Watson felt glad to hear. Saying his name made him real. Made his presence and existence real when he had not yet truly seen him. "We know now at any rate and we mean to help."

"Or I'm provoking Moran myself," Watson announced.

Both Lestrade and Mycroft looked at him in alarm. "Doctor," Lestrade started. "I do not think that is the wisest course of action."

"It is uncharacteristically stupid," Mycroft said flatly.

"Then give me another option," Watson begged. "As much as I am upset about this situation I believe, have to believe, that Holmes has not had an easy time of this either-"

Mycroft shook his head. "He has not indeed. You cannot provoke him though, doctor. Think for a moment as to why my brother decided to hide in plain sight. In plain sight not three minutes from your practice I might add."

Watson waited. His patience was quickly rewarded. "Moran made it clear to Sherlock at some point, he has never told me precisely when, that your life was forfeit the moment he revealed himself. That is the reason why you were to be kept in the dark. Moran is doubtless watching your home now and certainly has been for some time."

The later half of that pronouncement was nothing new to the doctor. Considering that fact Holmes's seemingly sentimental move was part was perfectly logical. Where better to hide than in plain sight after all? Had circumstances been different, Watson would have been touched. In this circumstance he was simply deeply hurt and angry. If Holmes had been there for as long as the bookstore had been then he had probably watched him suffer for years without doing anything. Not only watching but _observing._ Holmes would have known damn well what sort of affect this all had had on him and the cold-bloodedness necessary for that course of action repulsed him. And that also, in some ways, did not surprise him.

"Doctor?"

Watson looked over at Lestrade. "I'm alright," he assured him. Lestrade wouldn't press but he waited for Mycroft to raise issue. Mycroft remained silent, which only managed to infuriate him more. "Now what?" he demanded. "Do I simply continue to act the part of the grieving friend until Holmes decrees I've suffered enough? I cannot continue this act knowing the truth and I will not do it."

"I wholeheartedly agree, doctor."

It was Lestrade who reacted first. "You agree?" he sputtered. "Really? After all the work you've done to put us off the scent?"

Mycroft didn't actually shrug more than roll his shoulders slightly forward and then back again. It was either because the gesture was too below him or he actually could not shift his bulk that much. "Not assisting you while you know very well what is transpiring would be both illogical and irresponsible of me. I, too, would enjoy my brother to be free to pursue his life and livelihood sooner rather than later."

Watson sighed. Finally the universe seemed to be turning in his favour. His anger at the younger Holmes was set aside to be dealt with at another time and he fixed all his efforts and attention to the task at hand. "If provocation is a poor plan I trust you have a better one?"

Jupiter nodded. "The danger is the same, I warn you." He fixed his eye on Lestrade, who gave a determined nod and then trained it on Watson, who smiled wryly.

"I believe I gave the impression that I prefer danger than grief when given the choice."

"You did indeed, doctor. Now move in closer gentlemen…"


	9. Saturday, 13 May, 1893

Mademoiselle Rosalie St. Pierre had come over to England from France after the death of her father. Everyone still called her Lady Rosalie even though she had no proper title herself. Her fortune was so large she had found no reason to marry, despite rumoured dalliances with some of England's highest society, and made it her job to throw lavish parties once a month at her estate in Dover. She claimed to have no love for her native France but it was well known that you could see it on a clear night from the balconies.

The guest list for the May party included all of high British society and some of their friends. Holmes would be there delivering some condemning evidence about some illegal activity of Moran's to a Belgian contact. Colonel Sebastian Moran would also be making an appearance according to Mycroft's information in order to stop this.

"Moran will be there," Mycroft has said. "He and one of Moriarty's men who sold out one of his betters for freedom."

"Parker," Lestrade had more growled the name than said it. It had been a small price to pay to let Parker go. Parker had put ten gang members even more securely in Holmes's already tight nets. Parker had been a small player but that still made Lestrade furious to lose him. No one had heard from Parker since Moriarty's gang had been taken in, so that meant that Moran must have found Parker himself.

Parker was tied to Moriarty and Moran had to know that. It was a sickening display of overconfidence on the colonel's part and it was the over confidence they would exploit. They would catch him and that would leave Holmes, who Mycroft said would be there in disguise and knew nothing of their involvement, free to join society proper once more. And also perfectly able to answer to any questions, concerns or threats Watson had. That was almost the purpose for all this work, and it was work. There was no disguise that Mycroft decreeded that they could pull off properly so he decided that Watson had to learn how to properly appear like a shadow. Watson was incredibly poor at this skill but he had a merciless tutor in Mycroft. Despite all the drilling, practice and torture it was that thought that seemed to push him on more than the chance to see his friend again.

There was also the thrill of adventure there despite any warnings given.

The plan decreed that Lestrade was to be sent ahead. They didn't want to arrive all at the same time but Mycroft wanted someone there right away and he didn't want to leave Watson unattended for very long. Watson's skills at evasion were passible but Mycroft was not impressed with them. The party was large enough that they could enter unnoticed and they would all be on the look out for Moran. He had to be caught in the act and it was essential that Watson not be seen or recognized by Moran until the last moment. The more pairs of eyes they had watching for Moran, and therefore watching to see that Moran never saw Watson, the better.

That seemed to be precisely as easy as Mycroft had said. Lady Rosalie, a delightful and sociable woman who was the centre of this party's universe, certainly could throw a party. It was even more extravagant and more populated than Watson had imagined it. He was a drop in a sea of people and the islands were tables of food and various wines and champagnes, exquisite candelabras and a simply divine string quartet. It almost seemed like a ball in a children's fairytale. Watson almost found himself waiting for midnight to approach in eager anticipation of who knew what.

He didn't know where Holmes was in this ocean but he knew that he had been seen. Shortly after his arrival the string quartet had begun to play Vivaldi's Violin Concerto in A Minor. It had always been one of his favourite pieces and Holmes had always played it upon request or when he felt his partner had needed a bit of cheering up. When Watson had brought this point to Mycroft the older man had grumbled to himself "bloody sentimental idiot" and had gone about his mingling. It wasn't a precise confirmation of Watson's suspicions but he liked to think that it was. It reminded him the purpose of this whole scheme. No matter what wrongs Holmes had committed in his course of action all Watson wanted was his friend back. Any issues could be dealt with, and would be dealt with, but in hearing the second movement's melancholic, longing, melody he found his old grief settling on his shoulders and in his heart. It had been so long since Holmes had played for him, so long since he'd seen or spoken to him. He wanted that opportunity again.

_Thank you_, he thought to the quartet. He didn't know if Holmes was in their ranks or now, or whether the playing of the piece was even a signal to him at all, but it reminded him of what truly mattered.

"Want another drink, sir?" Watson turned expecting to see Lestrade offering him a glass but instead found himself looking at Parker. His cold eyes were insistent. "There's a gentleman who wants to see you," he whispered harshly. "I suggest you follow me." There was no room for argument and, upon a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw there was neither Lestrade nor Mycroft in sight. He was considering making a break for it but he saw the flash of pistol from inside Parker's jacket. Watson reached for his gun; the little thief had stolen it right under his very nose.

He would have to take this all up with Mycroft. The man may be a better deductive mind that his brother but it seems the finer practical skill of knowing when someone was being followed or lured away was something he seemed to lack. Along with several other practical matters as well it seemed. Granted he had missed these signs as well and had listened to the elder man. Maybe Moran and Parker were just that talented. Maybe Watson had just been out of the game too long.

In short order Watson found himself in what he would assume to be Lady Rosalie's bedroom. He wondered why she kept her bedroom on the second floor of the house instead of on the top most floor then retracted his question when he saw the balcony. It provided a gorgeous view of the channel and if one squinted France could be seen in the distance. It was as gorgeous as everything else had been.

"Doctor Watson."

He hadn't even noticed Moran standing there on the other side of Lady Rosalie's bed. Moran was a fantastic hunter; he knew even before he'd read Holmes's entry on the man. Tigers, usually. He was famous for tying up a kid under a tree and lying in wait above. The parallel was nearly exact. There was no real incentive to Watson to be here other than Moran himself, and Moran knew that Watson would move to stop him since he suspected about the true condition of London's foremost and only consulting detective.

"So who is he?" Moran asked. He didn't even move from behind the bed. His expression was the most beast like that he'd ever seen. Watson wondered if this was the last thing that his tigers saw before they were dispatched. Well, he certainly would not be joining those ranks, Watson decided. Not without a good fight at least.

"I don't know what you're talking about." It was a tired retort but it was the only thing he could say and still be considered believable.

"You know damn well what I'm talking about," Moran snarled. "Who is he? The lead violinist? The chef? That absolutely intolerable Viscount that insists on shaking hands with you every time he catches sight of you?"

Watson had no idea about any of those ideas and he allowed that confusion to show. How would Moran be able to determine the precise reason for his confusion? He opened his mouth to give some further denial, and also ask after Moran's health, when Moran pulled out his revolver and fired.

Watson groaned but did not cry out as the bullet passed through his shoulder, almost directly through the scar left by the bullet of so many years ago. He fell to his knees but remained upright as he clasped his shoulder tightly, even as he felt blood ooze through his clothing and over his hand.

Moran walked over to him, paused to look over him with that grin that he must have given his tigers. "Doctor Watson you really are being quite unreasonable."

"_I'm _unreasonable?" Watson hissed. "You're the one with the revolver."

"I'm not asking you again."

"Good. You're not getting any other answer."

The answer stunned Moran. It was strikingly obvious on his predator's face. His prey was fighting back, still protecting its mate when the easiest thing to do would be to give it up. Watson was under no illusions now that Moran had believed him even in the street; he probably hadn't even believed him when Watson himself had still been unaware. It was all in the open now and Watson, even if he knew which of the hundreds of people in this place was Holmes, he wouldn't tell. Somewhere he'd always known that his dealings with Holmes would get him killed. It was a comfort in a strange way. The knowledge was sure but that didn't mean that it was his first choice of outcomes. When Moran raised the revolver again he was ready.

As an officer in Afghanistan he had been in his fair share of fights. Out on a case with Holmes sometimes had him brawling with London's worst, and he had done so injured on both counts. If anyone had asked him to remember exactly each move he and his assailant had made in any of those instances he would not have been able to oblige them. A few key blows but that was all.

The fight with Moran was odd in that he felt that, if he survived this, he'd be able to recount it with every detail. Be able to remember it if anyone had ever asked without ever needing to write it down. Everything was clear as glass and every moved burned in his mind as bright as a photograph.

Moran and him grappled for the gun, a shot fired by the both of them that lodged in the dresser. It whizzed right past the door, someone had to have heard it. Someone had to be coming if Lestrade or Mycroft hadn't noticed he was gone by now.

He knew that Moran would not see Watson's right leg come up to kick him in the face. He took a great amount of pleasure that Moran would not be able to see out of that eye for a week at least. Moran tried to pay him back in kind but instead managed to punch him along his left temple, thoroughly disorientating him.

As Moran pinned him to the floor and put his sizable fists to work Watson mused that it had been years since he'd been subject to so thorough a beating. Moran certainly knew what he was doing. The pain was beginning to become intolerable. It would have been for worse had it just lay there on the floor and let Moran beat him into a fine pulp. He fought back, he knew he had. But Moran was stronger than he was, and in much better physical condition. When Moran finally stopped, after throwing him into a chest of drawers, Watson tried to take count of his injuries.

Bullet wound to left shoulder, bruised and bloodied temples, left leg practically useless, countless scrapes and bruises…his inventory was interrupted when Moran picked him up and carried him over to the balcony. Despite the growing fogginess clouding his vision and the buzzing in his head the colonel's purpose was quite clear: Watson was going over the balcony and into the channel.

"This is how Holmes killed the professor," Moran informed him with deadly calm surrounded by gasps of air. He was tiring. Good. "I found it fitting that you should meet the same end."

A door flung open, two raised voices shouted for Moran to stop. Moran gave Watson one last, evil filled look, and then rolled him out of his arms. Someone shouted.

But Watson was not dying alone. He reached out and grabbed Moran's shirt and held tight. He knew he had cleared the balcony and knew that Moran was well over the side with him when he felt something smash against his head and everything went dark.

- - -

It was alternating grey and blackness until Watson was convinced he'd fallen asleep. He could hear snatches of conversation but could not identify the voices or the words. When he managed to open his eyes, and felt a jolt of motion sickness when he realised that he must be in a cab, he remembered Moran and tried to sit up.

A firm hand shoved him back down. "Lay still, doctor," came Mycroft's voice. "You're almost home."

"Moran?" he rasped.

"Lestrade got him; he's taking him to the Yard now."

"And Holmes?"

A hand he hadn't realised had been holding his squeezed tightly. That was answer enough. He attempted to squeeze back but couldn't move his fingers. "Good," he said instead and let himself fall into the darkness again.


	10. Sunday, 14 May, 1893

When Watson returned to consciousness he felt the most comfortable he had ever been. Morphine then, he decided. Unless he had been asleep for longer than he imagined that was. He doubted that. He'd taken a beating, he would admit that much, but he wasn't about to give Colonel Moran the honour of beating him into a several day stupor. He did have some pride left after all.

He opened his eyes, as soon as recognized where he was, sat bolt upright in bed. This action drew a startled yelp from the person sitting next to him as he was pulled up out of his own slumber. Someone was holding his hand. Watson whirled to face the owner of that hand, his head spinning in revolt against the series of quick actions.

Sherlock Holmes, when he could see through the dizziness, looked quite a shock paler than Watson remembered him and his face was lined with both worry and cautious joy. It was then he realised that Holmes was dressed in the same manner as the violinists at Lady Rosalie's affair.

"You suggested the Vivaldi piece then?" Watson found was the first question to leave his mouth. A stupid and far less important one but clearly his subconscious had other plans.

Holmes smiled wanly. "I could not help myself," he admitted. "Mycroft was certainly less than impressed with me."

"I'd imagine not," Watson agreed. His voice was starting to shake and his mind was slowly realising the surreal quality of the conversation. "He referred to you as-"

"A bloody, sentimental idiot," Holmes finished with huff. "He informed me as such. Several times, actually."

Watson had seen the brothers get into minor insult spats before and the image that his mind gave him was too much to keep his reaction silent. He laughed long and hard, his ribs and chest protested at the ill use but when he heard Holmes's barking, haughty laughter join in he decided the pain was worth it.

That was when he grabbed the man by the arms and pulled him into a bear hug. He chest again protested, as did his better sense. His better sense reminded him that he was hugging Sherlock Holmes and that act was likely to have a volatile reaction but Watson ignored it.

He was further encouraged by Holmes the untouchable hugging him back just as tightly. "Oh my dear Watson," Watson's once lost friend forced out of his no doubt compressed lungs. "I've missed you so."

"I do believe," Watson argued, the words equally strained, "that I have suffered more than you have."

The embrace on Holmes's end changed. It turned into softer, more comforting one and was far less tight. "That you have," he agreed. He pulled away but continued to look at Watson, his face completely serious. True remorse, something that Watson had only seen on Holmes's face a handful of times, was both there and in his voice as he said. "I am deeply sorry. I had no idea that you would be so affected."

"What the devil sort of reaction were you expecting?" Watson sputtered. "Did you expect me to simply _continue_ after that? I am not you, Holmes. I cannot be as cold blooded, as _unfeeling_, as that!"

Holmes head sagged to his chest. Watson was sharply reminded of Lestrade's guilty school boy look of a few days ago. Might as well have been a few years ago for all that had happened since. "I could not have gone on had positions been reversed let me assure you," Holmes murmured. "You faired much more admirably than I would have." His right hand moved to cover his left forearm. "I know that I have done the unspeakable to you and I have no right to even ask your forgiveness. I do, however, ask for it nonetheless."

"And you of course have it," Watson said. "But I would appreciate an explanation." He'd alternated so long between wanting to weep into his friend's arms and wanting to throttle him that it was simply too much for him to commit to either extreme. Holmes's practice of emotional detachment would be put to the test. "I know this was another of your attempts of protecting me," he revealed. "Mycroft admitted that much. Something about Moran giving you an ultimatum."

Holmes's face switched to an expression of utter loathing. "Moran," he snarled, "witnessed his dear professor's demise and attempted to send me along to join him. As I fled he declared on no uncertain terms that if he ever heard from me again that your life was his to do with as his pleased."

"So you hid?"

"So I hid," he sighed. "I am willing to be responsible for certain things but your death through my own carelessness – I should have brought you with me to the falls and I should have known that Moriarty would not have come alone there – is not one of those things."

There were several follow up questions to that. Why did you not let me know was the more prominent one but it was pointless to ask. Holmes would either admit, or not admit, his stupidity in excluding that option but the truth of the matter was that once Holmes made of his mind that was the end of things. Once he had decided he was going to ground he was going to commit to it. If he could have somehow managed without contacting Mycroft at all he would have done it. Money was unfortunately quite the necessity though. Mycroft also would not have had quite the same reaction to receiving a telegram beyond the grave.

"You have a kinder heart than my brother ever has." He'd missed this, Watson realised. He'd missed Holmes being able to read his mind and, to his shock, it appeared that Holmes had missed surprising him with truths like this. They both smiled awkwardly at each other and Watson decided to let this particular point rest. Holmes had admitted fault, which was an occasion in of itself, and there would be no winner in this contest.

"Then you wandered for a year and yet came back anyway," Watson deduced. He was going to ask whether Holmes had been Sigerson as Moran had suspected but decided it was a question for another time. "Why did you come back? I trust you were not doing casework during this time?"

Holmes shook his head. "I was limited to the part you saw me play. I could do very little else without endangering myself or you."

"So you kept silent."

"I kept silent."

"Why bother coming back then? If there was no opportunity yet for you to capture Moran?"

Holmes looked at him in confusion, another expression that Watson rarely saw. "Is it not obvious?"

"Evidently not."

"Mary died," Holmes said simply. He made an attempt at a shrug and tried to look away. He was either shy or ashamed, maybe both. "I meant to only stay a short while," he continued. "I did not want to jeopardize your life any more than I had to but then-"

The key puzzle piece fell in Watson's lap. "Then I fell ill."

Holmes nodded. "Then I could not leave. Not when they were not certain if you would…" he made a vague gesture with his right hand and then let it fall. "I could not leave, no matter the danger. Not after that."

Watson was speechless. The man before him was more emotive, more expressive, than he had been in all the years he'd known him. Or rather thought he'd known him as all this new information seemed to suggest. The idea that Holmes would have become a bookseller, have hid so close to him, simply because he was worried had never crossed his mind. Yes there had been a strategic reason for being there but it seemed to be the furthest thing from great detective's mind. Even now, Watson observed, Holmes was looking at him with open relief that he was fine after the scuffle with Moran along with the fear of rejection.

Best put that to rest, Watson decided, Holmes had clearly not taken any joy out his deceit and had suffered as badly as he had. How would it be, Watson wondered, to watch a friend suffer from afar and dare not step in for fear of the consequences. No, Holmes's actions had flaws but he had done the best he could. Now, if only he had the words to express that to his friend.

Blessedly, for them both, Holmes understood without words. "A thousand apologies again and a thousand thank yous, my dear Watson."

"Not at all," he soothed, reaching out and grasping his hand. He winced and pulled the hand back. Apparently his body had had enough of squeezing and being squeezed. Holmes looked ready to give his best impression of Mrs. Hudson during flu season but he quickly batted his friend off. "It isn't that bad," he assured him. "Not much harm done."

"But not _no_ harm done!" Holmes argued. He all but shoved Watson back into the bed. "You should have a look at yourself, doctor. Though the eye is not nearly as bad as it looked."

"Moran's was far worse," Watson all but bragged. He hoped that was true.

Holmes chuckled. "That it was. I do believe he will spend almost all of his prison time, before he is executed that is, with only one functioning eye."

"That is a comfort indeed!" Watson laughed, wincing yet again. This time Holmes leapt into action before he could move. He was told to lie still and rest under no uncertain terms and that he'd bring some food in for them. Holmes's deafening shout of "Mrs. Hudson!" echoed through Baker Street and it was then that the tears touched Watson's eyes. He'd been waiting for those.

He was home. At some point during the day Holmes would ask him to sell his practice and move back in with him, and he would agree to it. The practice in Kensington had only ever really been a house to him and never a home. He'd have to do something about Eliza though. Maybe Mrs. Hudson could do with some assistance. He'd be sure she was looked after though. For all of Eliza's ignorance of the true reason for her employer's distress she had been a great help in her own way.

"MRS. HUDSON!!!!"

Watson snorted and relaxed onto the pillows as the bickering between landlady and tenant that had peppered their home life before went full force. He shut his eyes and smiled to himself.

It was good to be home. Very good indeed.


End file.
